Page 118 of Sixth Sin

Six is coming.

It starts out as a whisper—a soft breath blowing across my hair. But it turns into an echo, bouncing off all four walls and beckoning me to follow. I lift my head off the pillow just as Dominic mumbles in his sleep, his arm braced protectively across my chest. Glancing over my shoulder, I remain perfectly still, and when his erratic breathing returns to an even pace, I slowly slip out from under his embrace and tiptoe out of the room.

The halls are dark, and I have no destination. I simply walk, blindly following the whispers until I find myself in a familiar room, standing on a familiar floor, facing a familiar piece of furniture.

I’m in the room that smells like pennies. The room with a magic door that blocks out screams and shouts. The room where an angel appears if you count long enough.

But none of it is real.

This house has a weighted energy that preys on the spirit. The history and tragedy that paints the walls and stains the floors is enough to trick the mind into believing things. Seeing things. I’m Angel Smith. I left a group home in Phoenix, Arizona at sixteen and moved to Hollywood to be an actress. That’s who I am. I’ve never been anyone else.

Yes, you have. Look around. Remember.

I have no control. My body turns on its own to face the dresser I know so well. The one I’ve woken up crouched beside screaming more times than I can count. But this time, accompanied by the glare of the full moon spilling through the window, I gaze at my reflection in the mirror above it.

My long dark hair hangs in tangled strings around my white nightgown. My body is now frail and thin with arms that hang by my side like brittle sticks. My once smiling face is riddled with shadows and marred with a permanent frown.

What have I become?

Six.

I clench my jaw, glaring at my reflection as the words blow across my cheek. Slowly, my lips part in a knowing smile. With my heart pounding, I raise a hand to my lip, my fingers tracing the rough ridges and tight seam.

I’m not smiling.

My hand shakes, swiping hard against my closed mouth as my reflection continues to smile, watching me with rapt fascination.

You will hear us.

“No, no, no,” I chant behind my fingers, but the girl in the mirror doesn’t speak and she’s no longer smiling. I’m scared. I’m confused. I want to know what all this means, but before I can ask, she presses her index finger against her lips as if to silence me.

So, I nod.

Because I’m supposed to.

Then she starts the countdown. Holding up one finger, she waits until I obey the command.

“One,” I whisper.

A serene smile ghosts her lips as she adds another finger.

My voice becomes stronger. “Two.”

A third finger.

“Three.” Now, there’s no hesitation. No question. No fear.

A fourth.

“Four,” I announce, stepping closer, balling my fist by my side.

She flashes her thumb, her fingers spread wide.

“Five.”

There’s a pause as she looks down at her other hand, curling all but one finger into her palm. I know what comes next. It’s chased me all my life. Haunted me. Scratched at the back of my mind just waiting to be heard. I feel it like the distant rumble of thunder.

But I’m not ready for the rain.

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